Going Home
by Phx
Summary: Blue Earth, Minnesota in the middle of winter is cold. But a sense of duty is a sense of duty, even to the dead. Part 2 of 2 . Previously published in Blood Brothers 6.
1. Chapter 1

_Special thanks to Tea Junky for editing. This story was originally published in _Blood Brothers 6,_ which is still available for purchase. Just email TeaJunkieatcomcastdotnet and ask for details._

Author's note: This fic stands alone. However, it was intended as a companion piece to Trasan's story "Coming Home" (and whose preface I most lovingly also companioned :)), her story taking place when the boys are children. Be sure to check her story out!

Set toward the end of the Second Season… and is told in two parts. Here is Part 1.

**Going Home**

"I don't know, Sam, I think this is a big mistake," Dean groused as he maneuvered the Impala along the slick back roads of Blue Earth, Minnesota. It was December, cold and gray; definitely not a place Dean wanted to spend the winter. He'd been plotting hunts straight toward Georgia and the heart of Dixie country. Warm, sunny, Dixie country. And it had been working out just fine until Sam's cell phone had rung at one o'clock in the morning two nights ago. Now they were right back in the heart of cold.

Minnesota.

"Doesn't matter," Sam stared out the front window, his voice distant, his gaze hooded. "We owe it to Pastor Jim to take a look. It was his house."

Dean glanced at his brother, picking up something in his tone. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing," Sam sighed, shifting slightly in the seat. "Well, okay maybe not _nothing_."

"That was decisive." Dean grunted.

"Books falling off the shelves? Doors slamming shut in empty rooms? Lights going off and on by themselves? Definitely sounds like a ghost, a restless spirit." Sam summed up the panicked late night phone call he's received from Pastor Matt, an old friend of Jim's. The man had moved into the parsonage after Jim's murder—at the hands of demons—and was being tormented by an increasing spectral turbulence in the old church house.

"Definitely," Dean easily agreed, wondering where his brother was going with this.

"I don't remember anything like that when we stayed there… or of ever hearing Jim hint about anything like that going on. Jim was a hunter, that whole place was warded."

Dean frowned as he searched his memories before acquiescing, "So?"

"So why now? You don't think…"

Dean glanced sharply at him. "Think what?"

Sam swallowed hard, his eyes shiny and dark when they fixed on Dean. "That it's… _Jim_?"

Dean physically recoiled. "No," he stated after a moment, forcing his attention back on the road. He was adamant. "No way. Not possible."

"And why not? He died a violent death, Dean!"

The mere idea soured the words in his mouth and Dean had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Because… just no, Sam. It isn't Jim."

Sam looked like he was going to argue but then exhaled loudly and gave a curt nod instead. "Okay. Uh, yeah, then that leaves us with?"

"I don't know – someone _other_ than Jim?" Dean felt a surge of anger, not sure if it was at Sam for even thinking it might be Jim or because, deep down, Dean felt a niggling worry that it was. "If it is even a someone. Could be some_thing_ else entirely." He felt Sam's stare of disbelief and defended himself. "I'm just saying. Might not be a ghost at all. Could be a poltergeist."

"I suppose." Sam sounded reluctant. "But Pastor Matt doesn't feel threatened by it."

"That doesn't mean anything," Dean reminded his brother. "He also said the activity only just started. Poltergeists build up energy over time and it sounds like this puppy is just getting warmed up."

"Why now?" Sam shook his head, his face pursed in a frown. "It just doesn' t make sense."

"Like most things in our job." Dean snorted. "Face it, Sammy, we take care of things that don't make sense."

"Aha, funny," Sam deadpanned as Dean turned into the long driveway that led up the parsonage.

A weird longing made him sigh as he pulled up in front of Jim's old place and parked. The house itself hadn't changed much since the last time they were there, although the old barn out back was now gone, probably torn down before it fell on its own. But even with the barn gone, it looked a lot smaller than he remembered.

"Strange, huh?" Sam's voice was oddly subdued.

"Hmm?" Dean glanced at his brother.

"Being back here without Jim."

"Or Dad," Dean added quietly, remembering the summers, and the odd Christmas, that their father had either dropped them off here or stayed with them himself, either recuperating or regrouping. Neither he nor Sam had ever stayed there by themselves. Jim or Dad was always there with them.

The front door opened and a man in his late forties stepped out onto the porch. His face lit up in recognition as he eyed the car. "Dean?" he called out, hurrying down the stairs, screen door banging shut behind him. "_Little Sammy_?"

Dean grinned as he got out of the car and his _freakin' huge _brother unfolded himself from the passenger side. The pastor's eyes went wide in shock. "Not so much _little_ Sammy anymore, huh, Pastor? Too much Sammy now," he corrected, ignoring the fraternal glare shot over the roof of the car before Sam turned to smile warmly at their old friend.

"It's just Sam, now, sir." He extended his hand and the man gave him a knowing look before bypassing the hand and pulling Sam in for a hug.

"It's so good to see you boys," he said after a moment, pulling away from Sam to give Dean an equally warm reception. "But none of that 'sir' stuff. You make me feel too old."

Dean allowed the manhandling briefly before stepping out of the hug and patting the older man on the shoulder. He took a moment to appraise their old friend, pleased to see that while he had gotten a bit thicker around the middle waist, and there were deeply etched laugh lines on his ruddy face, Pastor Matt looked pretty much the same: white-blond hair, sharp blue eyes. Matthew Schneeberger hadn't really changed much over the years.

_ Schneeberger_… Dean chuckled softly to himself, remembering how Sam had so much trouble with Pastor Matt's last name and always called the man Pastor _Schneeze_berger instead. A mispronunciation the young pastor had always taken with good humor, sneezing and winking knowingly at Dean as the kid tried to keep from doubling over in laughter while Sammy, oblivious as ever, continued on with whatever story he was set on telling.

"Not old, Pastor Matt." Sam was such a suck-up. "Just seasoned."

That made the other man chuckle. He shared a knowing look with Dean. "And some things never change… Still charming the elders I see, Little S – I mean, _Sam_… That's going to take a bit of getting used to… c'mon, boys, let's go inside. It's too cold to be standing around out here." He slung one arm around each Winchester and walked to them the stairs. "I made pirogues and sausage, if anyone is hungry."

"What kind of sausage?" Dean asked, practically drooling at the thought of a home-cooked meal.

The pastor gave him a mock glare. "Spicy of course. Is there any other kind?"

On the other side of the man, Sam groaned something about antacid, and Dean grinned as he hurried up the stairs to the warmth of the house. "Yum, yum, I plum forgot just how much I love Minnesota."

"Plum, Dean? Really?" Sam grinned as he followed Pastor Matt inside and pulled the door closed behind him.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean grumbled as he toed off his boots, his nose crinkling pleasantly at the smell of tomato and spices. "Cabbage rolls, Pastor?" he gave the pastor a stern look. "You holding out on me?"

"Never, Dean. I thought cabbage rolls went without saying." Matt took their jackets and ushered them to the kitchen. "Let's eat first. We can catch up and then I'll tell you about everything that's been going on around here."

That was definitely an order Dean was onboard with. And watching his brother sniff the air, he knew Sam wouldn't be complaining either.

"You said something about falling books and doors being slammed shut in empty rooms?" Sam cut right to the chase as he sat at the table and scooped up a generous helping of cabbage rolls before passing the dish to Dean.

Dean glared at him.

"So no small talk then, huh?" Pastor Matt chuckled quietly as he poured three cups of coffee and sat down across from the brothers. "I seem to recall your daddy being the same way. Not much for chit-chat. Sorry, by the way, to hear of his passing. I wanted to send a card but…"

His voice trailed off and Dean saved him. "It's okay, Pastor Matt… Impala doesn't have a zip code. But—ah—thanks for, you know, wanting to send one."

"I'm amazed you still have her." The man nodded gratefully at Dean, his gaze moving between the brothers. "She looks good."

Dean's chest puffed up and he ignored Sam's huff. "She's my baby."

"Your dad would have been proud."

Sam was quiet as he carefully cut up and chewed each piece of his food. Dean noticed there were no sausages or pierogi on his plate and did the big brother thing: he slid his brother a generous helping.

"Hey." Sam's protest was perfunctory.

Dean just shrugged. "Just helping ya out - wait too long and they'll be gone, Sammy." He hooked a large sausage and hacked at it with a butter knife.

"Sorry about the knife," the pastor explained, "but I had all the sharp ones removed from the house…just in case. I locked them in the trunk of my car."

"It's been that bad?" Dean surmised, speaking around a piece of meat as he chewed.

"Not yet – but I didn't want to take any chances. So far, whatever this is seems to enjoy knocking all the books off the shelves, slamming doors, and turning the lights off and on… Although, last night it started to blast Christmas music at two in the morning." Matt spooned a generous amount of sugar into his coffee and stirred. He offered the sugar bowl to the brothers but they both shook their heads.

"Seasonal lover. Wonderful." Dean slid a look across at his brother but Sam seemed lost in thought, his gaze on the window over the sink. A heavy snow had started to fall. It was getting dark, and Dean was glad they weren't going to be driving tonight. "Ground control to Major Tom." He kicked his brother's leg under the table then smiled innocently when Sam turned a scowl on him. "You hearing this?"

"Huh?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Poltergeist's powering up. He's added music to his repertoire now."

"So it _is_ a poltergeist then?" Pastor Matt tried to confirm.

Sam, now back in the conversation, shook his head. "We don't know for sure yet. Could be a ghost. We'll want to check out the house, see what kind of readings we can pick up."

"What's the difference?" the older man wanted to know. "Between a ghost and a poltergeist, I mean? Aren't they sort of the same thing?"

As Jim's protégé, Matt was aware of the supernatural. But his exposure and interest had always been very limited, so Dean wasn't really surprised by the question and focused on buttering a thick slice of bread, ready to let his brother get his geek on.

Sammy didn't disappoint.

"Well," his brother started, leaning across the table and toward the pastor as he spoke. "A ghost is the spirit of someone who's passed on but, for some reason, has refused to 'cross over,' for lack of a better term. They're stuck here, but tend to be rather harmless. They usually don't do more than haunt an area, scaring people without really being seen or heard. But a poltergeist… Well, a poltergeist—"

"Is a lot more angry and violent," Dean cut in. "They're the ones with violent beginnings. A bad death that has left behind a lot of anger or negative feelings... It creates this kind of bad energy that builds up and gets increasingly aggressive until – well, until you get violent outbursts like the kind you're talking about here."

"A ghosts also tend to haunt a specific location, while a poltergeist is usually linked to specific people or item and can actually move from place to place with them," Sam finished off.

"Oh…that's disturbing." The pastor looked thoughtful for a while, then sighed tiredly and reached up to rub his eyes. "Sorry, boys. I haven't been getting much sleep of late. I hope you don't mind if I show you to your rooms then retire to my own for the night. You can go ahead and take a look around, see what you can find out." He waved dismissively at the table." I have a housekeeper who comes by in the mornings and she'll take care of the dishes."

Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin and pushed away from the table, rubbing his stomach in exaggeration. "That was good eating…" He looked at his brother, mildly irritated that Sam had started to stack up the dishes on his side of the table. "What are you doing? You heard the man. He's got a housekeeper coming in the morning."

Sam ignored him for a moment as he finished scraping off the plates and placing the cutlery neatly over the top of them. "That doesn't mean we have to leave her a mess."

"Uh, yeah, actually, Sam, it does. _House. Keeper. _That is sort of what the word means… You know what?" He turned to the pastor, who was watching them with mild amusement. "Why do I even bother? A lifetime in motels and he still makes his bed every morning before the cleaning staff gets there." He glared at his brother as he stood. "You finished, Cinderella, or do you want to wash the dang things too before we go upstairs?"

Sam stood and smiled sweetly at their host. "You said something about our rooms?"

Pastor Matt just shook his head and chuckled as he led them upstairs.

* * *

It unnerved Sam more than he realized it would, coming back here. He hadn't been back to Blue Earth since before going to Stanford and had no idea when the last time Dean or their father had been. He watched Dean's back as they followed the pastor up the stairs, half-listening as his brother explained about the EMF meter and what they would look for. Sam didn't mean to be distracted, but his mind kept returning to the last time he had spoken to the aging pastor. It had been only days before Dean had showed up on his and Jessica's doorstep. He had called to ask Pastor Jim a favor…

_"You don't have to do it if you don't want to… if you don't feel comfortable doing it. Don't feel you have to. I just thought it would be nice. You've always been like a second dad to me and Jessica loves the ocean and—" Sam knew he was babbling, but this was important to him; he was so nervous asking Pastor Jim, he couldn't even imagine how asking Jessica was going to be._

_ "Sam, you don't have to explain yourself to me. Of course I'd be delighted to perform the ceremony for you and Jessica. And anywhere you like... You're sure she's the one?"_

_ "Pastor Jim…I…" Sam felt his throat close as he thought about the beautiful woman who was his every breath. "She's everything to me."_

"Sam?"

A punch to the arm had Sam glaring at his brother. "What?"

Dean gave him an odd look, then shook his head and pointed between two rooms, side by side. "Which one do you want?"

"Um…" Sam frowned. When they were younger, they'd shared one room. It hadn't occurred to him that this time would be different.

Matt looked between them, concern rising on his face.

"I'll take this one." Sam quickly chose the closest one. The same one that had always been their room.

"'kay then, I'll take the other one. Dad's old room."

"Is that okay? I just assumed…" Matt's voice trailed off.

Both brothers' rushed to reassure him. "No, that's fine!"

"It's okay, Pastor, we're too big for bunk beds now," Sam added with a warm smile.

"Yeah, no kidding." Dean snorted waving his hands at Sam. "Can you imagine trying to fit all that in a twin bed?" He shivered in mock horror. "It wouldn't be pretty."

"Shut up." Sam grinned as he shoved his brother aside and went into their old room. Not much had changed; the bunk beds had been traded out for a double in the middle of the room. In an odd way, the change made things a bit easier, and he only felt slightly bad at making his brother take their father's old room, knowing that if it really bothered Dean, he never would have given Sam the choice.

"Good night, boys," the pastor called from farther along the hallway moments before Dean stepped into the room behind Sam.

"I think it's the same bed Dad used to sleep in," Dean commented, eyeing the changes in the room.

"You want to change rooms?" Sam offered, even as he tested out the bounciness of the mattress with his hands.

"Naw, just saying. Kinda cool, actually," he admitted, making Sam look at him. "I know, it's a strange thing coming from me but, man, it kinda makes me feel better. I don't know. Safer or something."

"Nostaglic?" Sam offered, smiling at his brother, proud of just how far Dean had come since their father's death almost a year ago.

"Gesundheit," Dean teased, letting himself fall onto Sam's bed and stretching out.

"Hey," Sam protested. "Get off my bed! You're wrinkling the bedspread!"

"Could you sound any more like a girl?" Dean smirked before pushing himself up off the bed. "C'mon, _sis_, let's get our stuff from the car, then take a look around. I don't know about you but I'm taking it kinda personal that someone is haunting our pastor's house."

"Bite me," Sam grumbled, but knew exactly how his brother was feeling. It just _felt_ wrong, like some sort of violation and there was just no way in hell they weren't going to put this thing to rest. One way or another.

Ten minutes later, the brothers were back upstairs. After dropping their bags in their respective rooms, they started to scan the house with the EMF, paying particular attention to the pastor's office with the big bookshelf. According to Matt, the room had a penchant for the books coming off the shelves, but right now everything seemed fine.

Dean tapped the face of the hand-held device. "That's weird." He frowned. " even a blip. Something with enough juice to toss books like that should leave _something_ behind."

Sam scanned the rows of books all freshly reorganized by the pastor, equally vexed. "Don't know. You sure it's not broken or something?" That earned Sam a scowl. Grinning, he turned away from his brother and stared out the closed window next to the bookshelf. It was dark and the snow was still falling. Very pretty actually, he mused as he moved closer to peer outside. He frowned when he saw the window was unlatched. "That's odd."

"What?" Dean asked as he popped the back off the EMF and played with a couple of the wires.

"Window was open, that's all." Sam ran a finger across the ledge, the absence of salt making him sigh sadly. Of course Pastor Matt didn't salt the windows – why would he? He opened his mouth to ask Dean if he was packing salt—his brother was always carrying something—but then changed his mind. They didn't want to do anything yet to change the setup of the haunting as they were hoping that whatever was happening, would happen again tonight.

"Maybe he worked up a sweat putting all these books back in order and wanted to cool off," Dean offered, casting a daggered look at the shelves.

Shaking his head, Sam turned away. His brother had nothing personal against useful books, but Dean hardly considered a shelf full of Bibles and religious texts useful, even though they kept a well-used copy among their own arsenal. "Maybe," he agreed, Matt not really striking him as a physical kind of guy. Probably did tax his exercise routine of the day to restack the shelves.

Sam circled around to the bookshelf again. "What do you think happened to all Jim's research books anyways? I don't see any of them here."

"Bobby got them." Dean put the EMF back together and took another scan of the room.

"What?" Sam looked at his brother questioningly. "Not that it doesn't make sense, but how'd you know that?"

"He told me. Damn it, still nothing." Dean scowled.

"When?" Sam demanded. "Where was I?"

Dean's disapproving look fixed on him. "What crawled up your ass? I don't know where you were – probably already gone to bed or something… Jeez, Sam, don't make it sound like we were hiding out from you behind the playground or something."

"You know what?" Sam huffed already heading for the door. "Forget it. I'm going to take a look around in the attic."

"The attic?" Dean started to follow him. "Why the attic?"

_ "Because it's as far away from you as I can get and…still be in the house!"_ Sam yelled from down the hall.

* * *

Sam had no idea where that surge of irrational petulance had come from, but by the time he'd reached the attic, he just felt tired and stupid. Dean was probably right. Most of the time, when they stayed at Bobby's, Sam ended up going to bed earlier than the other men and he could hardly expect that they didn't talk about things, just because Sam wasn't there. And that hadn't bothered Sam before. In fact, he was happy Dean had found a confidante in the older man. But still…

"Big girl is right," Sam grumbled to himself as he stood in the middle of the attic and realized he had no idea what he was looking for. Not like he had an EMF or anything, and he doubted the ghost, poltergeist, whatever, would just leave clues. After poking around for a few minutes, he went back to the lower floor and prepared to apologize.

Dean though, apparently had other ideas and when Sam finally found him, Dean was in his room with the door closed and a note stuck to it…with gum.

"Ew," Sam muttered, pulling off the note and ripping off the end so he could use it to wad up the gum. Not like Pastor Matt needed to see that. Shoving the paper-wrapped gum into his pocket, Sam walked back to his own room as he read the note:

DO NOT DISTURB. THAT MEANS YOU, SAM. UNLESS SOMETHING HAPPENS. DEAN

Sam grimaced. Yeah, there'd be need for much sucking up in the morning. Letting the note fall on the floor, Sam dropped on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He blinked once, twice, and then was out.

* * *

_Silent Night, holy night, all is calm. all is bright…_

Dean lurched out of bed, grabbed the EMF and his knife.

_ Round yon virgin, mother and child…_

He met his brother in the hall. Sam was still fully dressed, his hair a big mess.

_Holy infant so tender and mild…_

With Sam at his back, Dean hurried downstairs. The music seemed to be coming from the main floor.

_Sleep in heavenly peace…_

_ Sleep in heavenly peace._

And then as abruptly as it started, the loud music ended.

"What the hell?" Dean whispered, sweeping the living room with the device.

"Got anything?" Sam whispered back, his gaze darting around the dark room.

"Sam? Dean?" Pastor Matt hurried into the room and turned on the light. "Did you hear it?"

Dean shook his head, silently answering Sam's question as the EMF stayed silent and dark.

"Yeah, we did but whatever it is, it seems gone now," Sam reassured the older man. "You said the music was new. Did anything else happen with it? Books falling—"

A door upstairs slammed.

"Stay here!" Sam yelled at the pastor, his long legs already running for the stairs.

Dean followed right behind him. "Hold up," he growled , pushing past Sam to take the lead. He might still be pissed at the kid for the little _fit_ earlier, but he was still the big brother.

Sam huffed out something unflattering but let him go first anyway.

A quick search of the rooms garnered nothing. Once again both the EMF and the house were silent.

"I don't get it," Sam admitted as they stood in the hallway outside Dean's room. "Slamming doors? Loud music? I dunno…"

"Seems kinda pussy for a ghost, let alone a 'geist," Dean finished for him, shivering slightly in the chill. He was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, and kicked himself for letting his guard down. He should have stayed in his clothes, like his brother. Speaking of which… "You over whatever the hell that was downstairs earlier?"

Even in the dim lighting, Dean could see his brother blush. Good. Kid should be embarrassed.

Sam shifted on his feet. "Yeah, about that… man, I don't know what came over me-"

"Well, just don't let it happen again," Dean growled, anxious to get on to the job at hand. "Jealous?" he huffed. "Over me and Bobby? Get real, Sam. Now c'mon, let me grab some pants, then we can take a look outside. I got a weird feeling on this one."

"Me too," Sam admitted, then went downstairs to talk to Matt while Dean shoved on some warm clothes, not really looking forward to going outside.

* * *

"…we're just going to take a look outside," Sam was telling the pastor when Dean clumped downstairs. "Just to make sure we don't miss anything." He glanced at his brother when Dean strode into the room. "You ready?"

"Just need my boots and jacket." Dean carried the sawed-off shotgun, fully loaded with rock salt.

Boots and jackets later, the Winchesters stepped out of the warmth of the house and into the cold. It was just after two in the morning and the night was eerily quiet, the snow having finally stopped. But a brisk wind had picked up in its place, swirling the freshly fallen powder around their feet. In silent agreement, the brothers stuck together, making a quick trek around the house. Their boots crunched noisily in the crisp snow, their breaths puffs of white, before they finished their round and stopped shy of the driveway, in sight of the front door.

A good foot had fallen on his car, and Dean was not looking forward to digging it out in the morning. "I hate Minnesota," he grumbled as he rubbed his hands together to keep them warm, the shotgun held snuggly between his arm and body.

Sam ignored him, his gaze fixed on something in the distance.

"What?" Dean demanded, following his brother's gaze toward the old cemetery farther back on the property. Although it wasn't used anymore, it seemed kept up pretty well from what Dean could tell from the original cursory glance he'd given it on their walk around. "You see something? Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam gave himself a little shake, then looked at his brother. "What? No, I was just thinking."

"Thinking?" Dean snorted quietly. "About what? Your old imaginary friend? What was his name again? Octave, Oscar-"

"Olaf," Sam corrected quietly. "His name was Olaf. Look, can we just back inside? There's nothing out here to see."

Dean opened his mouth to tease his brother some more, faint memories of a winter so long ago on the tip of his tongue, but then changed his mind. "All right – snow's covered anything that might have been useful anyway."

By the time the brothers had trudged back inside, they were both shivering.

"Did you find anything?" Pastor Matt asked as he met them in the porch.

"Snow." Dean sighed. "Maybe a mild case of hypothermia," he added, flexing his stiff fingers. "Want to hit the library in the morning?" Dean asked his brother as he hung up his jacket and kicked off his boots.

"Probably a good idea," Sam agreed with a yawn. "Check out the history of the house, see if anything comes up."

"Sorry, boys. I wish I could be more help," the older man fretted as he followed them into the hallway.

"Not your fault," Dean assured as he stifled his own yawn and cast a glare at his brother when Sam smirked at him. "Do you think that's it for the night? Or does it like to keep things up?"

"Not usually. The music was new last night but usually it would just slam a door, knock the books down and fiddle with the lights. Tonight's been a bit quieter to be honest. Maybe it just knows you boys are here." The man smiled at them warmly. "Your reputation and all."

"Not really sure our reputation would help." Sam chuckled softly, avoiding a half-hearted swipe from Dean as he put a foot on the first stair to go up to the bedrooms. "But if you don't mind, I think I'm going to try to get some more sleep."

"Me, too," Dean agreed, following his brother. "All this excitement has plum tuckered me out. Night, Pastor."

"Again with the _plum_, Dean?" Sam teased. "What is it with you and fruit today?"

"I don't know," Dean grumbled petulantly. "It just seemed to happen when we crossed the Minnesota state line. I've become Howdy Doody or something…"

"That makes no sense!" Sam chastised as he stopped to look at Dean.

"You make so sense," Dean gave him a shove to get him moving again.

"_Good night, boys_," Pastor Matt's mirthful voice followed them up the stairs.

* * *

"Did you find anything?"

Dean's voice startled Sam and he jerked up from the drawings he was looking over in the library. He'd found a copy of the original architect's schematics for the parsonage in the township archives.

"What's s'matter, Sammy, did I scware you?" Dean teased as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Sam at a small table at the back of the library.

Sam covered a yawn and shook his head. "Sorry – didn't sleep well last night." And they'd hit the library first thing in the morning. Now, four hours later, Sam had been fighting to keep his eyes open.

"I wonder why," Dean remarked dryly.

Sam shook his head. "I meant after that. Couldn't get comfortable or something." He didn't want to admit to the weird dream he kept having about an elephant in the snow wanting him to come outside and play. Dean would never let him live that one down.

Dean shrugged as he dragged a corner of the old drawings closer to take a look. "I slept like a baby."

"Good," Sam said, and meant it. He continued on before Dean could do more than give him a look. "This is just so weird. It doesn't make sense, not even for us, but I've gone back to even before the house was built and checked out the land and everything, and there is absolutely nothing to explain what might be going on now. Excluding Jim's, no deaths, violent or otherwise. No ancient burial grounds or other land claims. No missing persons, no construction accidents. Nothing. Nadda, zip, zero, absolutely _nothing_." Sam sat back in frustration.

"So, what you're really saying," Dean drawled out as he also sat back and folded his arms across his chest, "is that you found diddly-squat?"

"Yeah, pretty much. What about you?" Sam smirked, thinking of the blonde at the front desk his brother had been chatting up while Sam had hit the books. "Was the librarian any help?"

"Unfortunately, no," Dean admitted with true regret in his voice and a look of longing on his face. "Other than offering to console me on our 'uncle's' unfortunate passing, she really didn't get her job for her IQ."

"Isn't that just how you like them?" Sam chuckled fondly.

"Usually," Dean had no trouble admitting, "but she also really liked Jim and that just made things creepy… and she's a member of Matt's congregation…. and there are just some things you don't _flock_ with."

"Don't you mean fu— Ow!" Sam yelped, glaring at his brother for kicking him under the table.

"What about the cemetery?" Smooth topic change by big brother. "Could be something came crawling out of there."

Sam glowered another second, then shrugged. "I don't know, man. That would be stretch. Why now? No one has been interred there since before you were born. Surely if anyone was going to go Caspar, Jim would have taken care of it already… Unless—"

"Unless Jim had wards or protection in place that have been recently disturbed." Dean finished his brother's line of thought, already starting to roll up the plans so they could put them away and get the hell out of there. "Two things to do: Talk to Matt again—"

"And visit the cemetery," Sam finished with a nod as he stood up and grabbed his jacket. "Matt first?"

Dean flashed a grin. "Matt first."

And of course, the fact that it was early afternoon and the pastor probably had made lunch for them had absolutely nothing to do with it. Although, cabbage rolls…

* * *

"So, did you find out anything?" Matt asked as he passed them plates heaped with corned beef and mashed potatoes. No cabbage rolls this time, but oven-warmed buns were more than adequate compensation, in Sam's opinion. And if the noises Dean was making as he took the first bite were any indication, his brother was okay with it too.

"Yes and no, actually," Sam spoke for them as he buttered one of the buns before Dean inhaled them all. "We did find out that there really is nothing that should be going on here—which is a yes—but we're no closer to finding out what is happening, which is the no."

The pastor chuckled. "That does cover it rather nicely."

"We do need to pick your brain a bit more though," Sam continued. "Do you remember seeing anything strange around the house, like little bags of herbs or twigs?"

"You mean like hex bags?" the man asked. He steepled his fingers in front of him as he watched the brothers eat. "No…not that I recall."

"So you didn't do any particular kind of housecleaning or anything when you first moved in? Or even more recently?" Dean finally joined the conversation after taking a large swig of coffee to wash some of the potatoes down.

"No…" Matt started but then a thoughtful look crossed his face. "Well, I'm just thinking, no, I didn't personally see anything like that but, to be honest, Linda, my housekeeper, is here every morning for a couple of hours, doing cleaning, washing, dishes, things like that. So if there was anything to find, she would have already taken care of it months ago."

The brothers shared a look.

"Can we talk to Linda?" Sam asked.

The pastor nodded, already starting to stand. "I don't see why not. Let me give her a call. Her boys—she has twins—are in morning kindergarten and she picks them up after she finishes here, but I'm sure she must be home by now."

"What do you think?" Dean leaned toward Sam as Matt went to use the phone in the parsonage office. "The maid do it?"

Sam frowned as he stabbed at a piece of the beef, then pushed his plate away, not really that hungry. "I don't know. The timing doesn't make sense. She would have found whatever wards Jim had up a while ago, so why is something going on _now_?"

"You going to eat that?" Dean was already snagging the meat.

"I spoke to Linda," the pastor hurried back into the kitchen, "and she's fine with Dean dropping by to talk to her as long as you're gone before her husband gets home. He's a bit of a jealous type."

"Why _Dean_?" Sam asked, feeling another odd prickle of irritation.

Matt gave him a sympathetic look and reached over to pat Sam's hand. "Don't take it personally, Sam, but you look too much like Linda's ex-boyfriend and I'm afraid she's going to take one look and…. Well, it just wouldn't be good. She does have small children and all… And if Ryan – her husband – does come home early… well, let me just say he isn't a 'forgive and forget' kinda guy."

Dean started to laugh. "Man," he slapped the table, "I love me these little towns! Talk about drama central."

"You don't know the half of it." The pastor winked conspiratorially, then sat down back down at the table. "And you never will…"

* * *

Dean had no idea what to expect when he knocked on Linda Blair's door and waited for her to answer. He couldn't help but chuckle at her name. Linda. Blair. Oh, that just begged for some Exorcism jokes, but after promising both Sam and Matt that he'd be on his best behavior, he shelved the good stuff and decided to stick with introducing himself politely. Or he would have if his jaw hadn't dropped open at the sight of the drop-dead gorgeous redhead in tight leather pants who answered the door.

After an awkward moment, the woman smirked at him. "Pastor Matt's Dean, I presume?"

"Linda?" Dean had to shake his head to clear it. He scowled at her in disbelief. "You're the _housekeeper_?"

"I can be." The vixen actually purred at him, batting her eyelashes. "If you want me to be…"

Dean felt the collar on the suit Sam had forced him to wear, get a bit tight. He was saved by a high-pitched scream of "_Mommy_!" coming from inside the apartment, followed closely by an "_I didn't do it_!"

"Come in," Linda invited as she turned around to deal with whatever crisis she'd just missed out on.

Dean followed her, glancing around at the homey little apartment. It wasn't fancy or anything by anyone's standards, but it was clean and tastefully decorated. He smirked at the mess of dinky cars in the middle of the living room floor. It was easy to tell little boys lived here. He passed an assessing eye over a family portrait hanging over the couch, recognizing Linda right away. And geez, Pastor Matt really should have given him some sort of warning about her. The two boys in the picture, one of which was currently loudly proclaiming his innocence about something in the other room, looked like their mom. The guy in the picture, presumably Ryan the jealous husband, was a hulking big guy with jet-black hair and hammer-sized hands. Dean gave a full-body shudder. Definitely not someone he wanted to run into.

"I'm sorry," Linda apologized as she sauntered back into the living room. "Please sit."

"Is everything okay?" Dean asked as he sat. The couch was very soft and going to require some consideration when standing; he didn't want to look like a goof.

"Oh yes, just boys being boys." The woman smiled sweetly. "Pastor Matt said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Uh, yeah. He mentioned that you've been doing the housekeeping for him at the parsonage since Pastor Jim died."

Linda's face grew sad. "Actually, I started working at the house a couple months before Pastor Jim— Well, before that awful tragedy. It was so terrible… And the man was such a saint. I just can't think of who would have wanted to do something like that. Horrible, it was. Just horrible."

Dean had to restrain himself from giving the obviously distraught woman a hug. "Ah, yeah. It was," he agreed as he shifted uncomfortably. He was so glad his brother wasn't here to see him practically salivating. "But back to the house… Other than salt on the window ledges, did you ever see anything out of the ordinary? Maybe some weird looking little bags, drawings on the floors or walls, or anything odd?"

The woman licked her lips as she appeared to give the question great thought. Dean was fascinated by the motion and had to shake his head and look away. Was this woman a siren or something?

"Other than that weird symbol thingy on the floor, under the front mat?"

It took Dean a moment to realize what she was talking about; he'd forgotten about the devil's trap Jim had stenciled onto the floor. He and Sam hadn't known what it was when they were younger, other than a protection symbol. "Yes," he nodded, "other than that."

"Maybe." She batted her eyelashes and grinned coyly. "Do I get any special reward if I did?"

"Mommy?" A small red-haired boy burst out of the kitchen. "Jamie's being mean to me again!"

Linda gave Dean a sweet smile then yelled over her shoulder. "Jamie, you be nice to your little brother, or there won't be any extra cookie for you at snack time!"

"_Mommy_!" came an indignant squawk from the kitchen.

"You heard me!" she shouted back, and then gave Dean an apologetic look as the little boy disappeared into the other room. "I'm so sorry. Where were we? Oh, yes. We were talking about my reward…"

Dean was itching to get out of there, his attraction to the woman having dwindled to bare tolerance. "Well, I'm sure something could be worked out with Pastor Matt—" He ignored Linda's immediate pout. "What exactly did you find?"

"I was only teasing." She smirked. "Unless mothballs count because, really, Pastor Jim seemed almost obsessed with them. They were, like, in every closet."

"Ah." Dean decided there really wasn't anything helpful he was going to get from her and remembered Matt's warning to be out before the husband got home. "Well, thank you for your time, Linda," he stood in one fluid motion, rather pleased that the plush couch allowed him the dignity, "but I'd better be going. One more thing, though. Do you know if anyone else went in to do any sort of cleanup before you started to work there?"

Linda stood, shaking her head. "Nope, just me. Can I ask you one thing, though?"

Dean felt himself tense.

She continued on without waiting for his response. "Why would Pastor Jim have salt on his windows? The ledges were practically dust free…"

* * *

Sam stood outside the cemetery gate, his breath curling in wisps of white as he shifted from foot to foot in the cold. He definitely needed a warmer pair of boots. A soft smile curled the edges of his mouth as a myriad of memories warmed him from inside. He'd spent a lot of time in this old graveyard when he was kid. It was weird to think about now, a small child playing among headstones, inventing imaginary playmates from the names of the dead.

Not weird, he amended with a slight shiver, creepy.

"Just how messed up was my childhood?" He snorted a chuckle, thinking of one December in particular when Dean had been busy at school and Sam had met Olaf. "Olaf?" Sam shook his head. "You are such a freak, Winchester. What kind of kid picks an invisible friend called 'Olaf'?" He laughed out loud. "And one who didn't even speak a word of English."

Still grinning to himself, Sam unlatched the gate and pushed it open. The recent snowfall made it a bit difficult but it wasn't deep enough yet to cause him too much trouble. He noted absently that the fence must have been painted within the last year or two and felt his eyes sting, pretty sure it had been Pastor Jim himself who had done the painting. The man had always insisted on keeping the cemetery in a good state of repair, even if the church didn't use it anymore.

Once inside, he started a methodical search of the area, his mind having perfectly mapped it out years ago. In many ways, it felt like visiting old friends, and he found himself stopping by certain markers to brush the snow off the names or to give them a fond pat, and was ridiculously glad Dean wasn't there to witness it. His brother would be ribbing him about being a sentimental girl for _years. _Not that Dean wouldn't anyways…

Eventually Sam ended up standing in front of Olaf's marker, a blush of gray in the oldest part of the cemetery. The words had all but worn off, but Sam knew them by heart:

OLAF PETERSON

1876-1885

LUBA BRAT

The little boy had only been nine years old when he'd died and perhaps that, and the fact that the word "BRAT" had been engraved on the headstone, had endeared the child to Sam. Sam couldn't remember exactly how Olaf came into being, but Olaf had lasted the longest of Sam's imaginary friends, and he was the only one Sam had ever dreamed about. Although, after Dean's little mishap in the graveyard that same week, Sam wasn't allowed to play there by himself anymore. Sam had continued to play amongst the headstones whenever they visited Pastor Jim's, but only under the strict supervision of Dean who, for whatever reason, wouldn't let him play with Olaf.

"Jealousy," Sam surmised to the quiet afternoon as he ran gloved fingers across the top of the granite. "For some reason, big brother was jealous of you…" He shook his head and started to walk toward the last section at the very back of the cemetery when something distinctly out of place, resting at the foot of a tilted headstone, caught his eye. "What the—?"

Although it was covered in snow, Sam was pretty damn certain he knew what the square-shaped lump was before he used his boot to give it a light tap. And he was right. A beer case. He crouched down and flipped open the flaps, taking a moment to check out the inside. An empty beer case. He straightened up. "Nice…" Scowling, he glanced around, irritated that anyone would desecrate _his_ cemetery, but he didn't see any culprits. The few trees and shrubs, leaf bare and telling even this early in winter, would have made it difficult for anyone to hide.

Sam rubbed his hands together, his fingers chilled through his light gloves. Had to be kids. Why else come all the way out there to drink? They get shit-faced and piss off one of the locals? His eyes skipped across the headstones, each one a potential suspect. No, that didn't make sense. Can't be the first time something like this has happened… Although… He pursed his lips and started to pace a small path in an effort to keep the blood flowing to his toes. Maybe there was something different—

His cell phone ringing startled him, and it took him a moment to dig it out of his jacket pocket. He glanced at the caller ID before answering, "Hey, Dean."

_"Man, I think I need a shower."_

"What? Did something happen?" His brother was only supposed to be asking the housekeeper some questions. If Dean found a lead and tried to follow it up on his own—

_ "No, dude, it was that housekeeper chick, Linda. I feel…practically violated!"_

"Violated?" Sam's face puckered in confusion.

_"You should have seen her, Sam, she was like a piranha that hadn't eaten in months. And I was her little lunch minnow! Here I was, trying to conduct the interview and she's just sitting there undressing me with her eyes."_

Sam couldn't help but laugh at the plaintive whine in his brother's voice.

Dean growled, "_Hey!_"

He tried to muster up some sympathy but the visual of Dean being chased around by an Alice Brady-Bunch-type housekeeper made it difficult. "Sorry, bro. Just, uh, yuck?"

_"The things I do for this job,"_ Dean grumbled. _"Next time, though, I don't care, you're coming with me."_

"Let's try to make sure there isn't a next time," Sam offered, then asked, "So, other than herself, did Linda have anything valuable to offer?"

_"Ha, ha, Sam, and no. Oh wait, she did make one comment. Apparently old Jim had stopped salting his windows months before he died."_

Sam paused, mid pace. "What?"

_ "You heard me. For whatever reason, he wasn't putting up wards. Son of a bitch!"_

"Dean?" Sam clenched the phone at his brother's startled yelp. "What's going on?"

_"I just got rear-ended! Damn it! I gotta go."_ And then Dean was gone in a flurry of four letter words that had Sam wincing.

The good? His brother sounded okay.

The bad? There might just be bloodshed in Blue Earth today.

Quickly pocketing the cell phone, Sam hurried toward the front gate, intent on seeing if he could borrow Matt's car so he could head into town. He got about five steps when the ground suddenly gave way under him and, with a startled yelp, he was falling.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2.

**Going Home**

Dean was furious. He stalked to the back of the car, and appraised the damage, completely ignoring the big guy wearing way too much plaid. The guy would be dead soon, so it hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things.

"No, no, no," he growled as he took in the large dent in the bumper, then opened the trunk to see how extensive the damage was.

"I am so sorry," plaid man was babbling. "I don't know what happened. I hit the brakes but Baby just kept on moving."

Thankfully the bumper wasn't pushed in as far as he originally thought— Wait. What? Dean stared at the guy dumbly. "Baby?"

"Yeah, my truck." The Impala's attacker pointed at the large red monstrosity he'd been driving. "I call her Baby."

"Oh, no." Dean shook his head in denial. "You did not just call that beast, _Baby_."

The man's features darkened as he straightened his shoulders, revealing how big he actually was. _Big_…and strangely familiar looking.

"Did you just call my Baby a beast?"

"So what if I did?" Dean's inner voice was saying back down but his mouth was off and running. "Your_ butt-ugly piece of crap_ beast hit _my_ Baby!"

The guy balled up hammer-sized hands, and Dean realized a split second too late who this was: cleaning lady Linda's husband, Ryan. The one Pastor Matt had warned him about.

"Oh crap," he muttered as he saw one of those giant fists fly toward his face. This was so not his day…

* * *

When Sam regained consciousness, he was cold and confused. The world was blurry, and he had no idea what happened. "Wha—?" he slurred, his gaze lolling slowly to the side. Bright light from above made him squint, his head aching against it. But when he closed his eyes, darkness pulled him under again.

The second time Sam regained consciousness, he wasn't alone. A child, no more than eight or nine was peering anxiously at him. There was something familiar about the child, but Sam couldn't think, so he let his eyes close again.

* * *

"You look terrible," were Pastor Matt's first words when he picked up Dean at the police station.

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy," Dean grumbled, wincing. Speaking pulled at the warm skin of his fat lip, but it was true. Although big, Ryan had no training or technique. So while he managed to tag Dean a couple of times, it didn't actually take much for Dean to have the big man on the ground groaning in pain and crying for his mamma.

"I did," the Pastor admitted, his tone disapproving. "And I think you are both lucky Sheriff Devon was feeling seasonably charitable and, in light of _all_ the circumstances, only tossed you in a cell to cool down. He could have pressed charges."

The man sounded so much like Pastor Jim that Dean dropped his gaze and had the good grace to feel embarrassed about what had happened. He frowned after a moment as he waited for the pastor to unlock his car. It was an older model and didn't have one of those fancy FOB's or key unlock systems. "What do you mean, _all_ the circumstances?"

"I just explained that you were one of Pastor Jim's nephews and that this, being your first trip back since his death, was a difficult time. Coupled with Ryan's own history of trouble _and_ the stress of the fender bender on both parties, the Sheriff decided it really was just a perfect marriage of bad timing." Matt finally got the car unlocked and let them both inside.

"Oh." Dean wasn't sure what to say about that, so turned to more urgent matters. "Sam springing my car?" That could be the only reason Dean could think of for Pastor Matt playing taxi instead of his brother. The Impala had been impounded by the police when they'd shown up, along with Ryan's truck. Neither vehicle damaged enough to be sent directly to a repair garage.

"Sam?" Pastor Matt shook his head. "I thought he was with you."

Dean frowned as he worked his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and noticed there were no missed calls. "You told him to sit the interview out. He was supposed to be checking around the cemetery." He pressed speed dial and waited for his brother to answer. "Damn," he muttered as the phone went to voicemail. He waited for the beep and left a quick message. "Call me." Disconnecting the call, he looked at Matt. "Can you drop me off at the impound lot? I'll meet you back at the house."

"Sure." The pastor nodded. "Your brother probably just didn't hear his phone or something," he said, trying to make Dean feel better. "Happens to me all the time. I just get so taken by a book I'm reading and the next thing I know, bam, I've missed two calls."

Dean's smile was tight. "Yeah, maybe." He lied through the sense of dread clawing around his stomach. It wasn't impossible. If Sam found something in the cemetery and went back to the library to follow it up, he wouldn't have his phone on… but he would have left Dean some sort of message. Especially since Sam knew about the accident.

* * *

The third time Sam opened his eyes he knew he was in trouble. His head was still pounding and it was hard to think. He was cold and it was dark. And he wasn't alone; there was a ghost watching him, a transparent child, its face hovered inches from Sam's. Sam held his breath, unsure of its intent.

For a long moment, ghost and hunter just stared at each other, and then the ghost smiled.

"Uh…hi?" Sam tried to say, but the words were raspy, his lips and throat dry.

"_Sammy_…"

The word was like a cold whisper and Sam shivered hard, forced to close his eyes as he swallowed slowly. After a moment, he reopened them again and saw the young spirit still watching him. He fought hard to concentrate. "You…you know me?"

"_Sammy_…" the ghost repeated, his face hopeful as if Sam should know him, too.

But Sam's head hurt too much, and he closed his eyes again.

* * *

Dean wasted no time getting back to the house. As he parked the Impala and turned it off, his eyes swept the area, looking for his brother. The pastor wasn't back yet and the house was dark. Still, Dean checked it first, hoping Sam was snoozing or something. No such luck. The place as empty as it was dark.

"Damn," Dean said as he stood in the kitchen and tried his brother's cell again. Still no answer. "Where the hell are you?" The cemetery was the last place he knew Sam had been so, zipping his jacket up, Dean hurried back outside, cursing and shivering against the rapidly dropping temperature. It was supposed to be colder tonight, according to what he'd overheard from the back seat of the sheriff's car.

* * *

"Sam? Sammy!" Dean yelled as he quickly covered the distance between the parsonage and the cemetery. "Sam!"

No answering yell. The graveyard was postage-stamp sized at best, and it didn't take Dean long to search. At his considerable height, Sam should have been easy to spot, towering over the markers, and even if the kid was crouching down to look at something, there was no way he could miss Dean's yelling. So after a few minutes of looking and hollering, Dean realized his brother was not there. That left him stumped.

"Where the hell did you go?" he growled, worry putting an edge to his voice.

Before he could decide what to do next, his phone rang.

"Sam?" he answered without looking at the caller ID.

_"Not exactly,"_ Bobby's voice rumbled in his ear.

"Hey, Bobby, sorry." Dean tried to keep the disappointment from showing in his voice. "What's up?"

_ "Just wondered if you boys had finished up there yet? I got wind of a possible hunt between Blue Earth and here. Thought ya might want to take a look and then head by for a couple of days afterwards."_

"Awww, you miss us." Dean couldn't help the smile that lit up his face. It was almost funny just how easily Bobby had slotted himself back into their lives after years of being absent.

_"Like a toothache,"_ the older hunter grumbled.

"Well, as luck would have it, we're going to be needing to haul ass for a visit anyways… some local yokel rear-ended me a couple of hours ago. Car's drivable but the bumper could use a bit work." Dean still seethed about the whole thing.

_ "Damn it, Dean, didn't you just finish gluing that thing back together a couple of months ago?"_

"I know," Dean agreed and then thought of something else. "Hey, Bobby – you still got Jim's journals and books and stuff, don't you?"

"_Of course. What do you need?"_

And that is why Dean loved the old man like a father. No pussyfooting around. Bobby always cut straight through the crap. "Could you see if Jim mentioned anything odd going on in his house before he died? We're totally stumped on this one. Sam ran a history on it and there isn't so much as a nail out of place…"

_ "All right, give me a couple of hours to see what I can find." _Bobby paused, then added._ "Have you considered that it could be—?"_

"Don't even say it," Dean cut the other hunter off. "I will tell you the same thing I told Sam, it isn't Jim, okay? It just isn't."

_ "Okay, okay. Just saying… I'll call you back as soon as I get something."_

And then Bobby was gone.

Sighing in frustration, Dean took one last lingering glance around, then started toward the gate. "Where the hell did you go after you left here?" he muttered, wondering about the validity of sewing a tracking device into his brother's boxers. Screw that, surgical implantation was the only way to go—

"_Sammy_…"

Dean paused. Had he just hear something?

"_Sammy_…"

There it was again.

Frowning, Dean slowly turned around. He held his breath and listened, positive he'd just heard his brother's name. Something flickered, just off to the side and Dean's hand moved for his gun. What if Sam had run into whatever was messing with Pastor Matt?

"Hello?" he called out, cautiously moving toward the back of the cemetery. "Is someone here?" He listened for another moment, and then bellowed, "Sam!"

"_Sammy_…"

This time he was sure. He _had_ heard his brother's name.

And then he saw the child; a little boy about nine or ten years old, with snow blond hair and eyes that burned black.

Dean stopped. "I…I know you…" he stammered as slivers of recollection cut tiny slices through the fabric of his memory and took him back almost twenty years to another day in this same cemetery.

A jealous Dean had been spying on a very young Sam and Sam's invisible friend, when a freak accident landed Dean with a minor concussion after he'd slipped on a ground-level marker and hit his head. Just before he'd lost consciousness, he could have sworn he'd seen a little boy, the same child now standing in front of him. He'd never mentioned it to anyone at the time, not really sure that what he'd seen was real or a concussion-induced hallucination.

Dean shook his head as he just continued to stare, realization making him colder than the weather ever could. It wasn't a child. Not anymore. It was a ghost.

The ghost glanced behind itself and then disappeared.

"Hey! Wait!" Dean shouted, chasing after it as it appeared farther away, near the back of the cemetery. He almost plunged into a large hole. "What the—?" Arms pin wheeling as he lurched back onto more solid ground, Dean gaped at the size of the sinkhole. It was easily big enough to drive a small car into. Nearby graves tipped precariously at the edge, one, if not two plots having already fallen in. And Dean knew right away that if Sam was down there, they were going to need help. 9-1-1 kinda help.

"Sam?" he yelled, leaning forward as much as he dared, more worried about sending something else down the hole than falling in himself. He eyed a large teetering monument in particular. "Sammy! You down there?"

For a long moment, he heard nothing.

"Sam?" he tried again. "Sammy!"

A soft groan reached his ears.

"Crap, crap. Just hold on, Sammy…okay?" Dean fumbled for his phone. "I'm going to get you out of there. I promise. Just…hold on!"

* * *

"Your brother is a very lucky man," a white-haired doctor announced. "He's going to be just fine."

Dean felt relief slither down his spine and let out a heavy sigh, his body melting back down into the waiting room chair he'd been sitting in for nearly six hours. It had taken the rescue crew almost three hours to get the sinkhole stabilized—who knew Minnesota had sinkholes?—and get Sam out. His brother was then airlifted to St. Mary's Hospital in Rochester. The trip took Sam minutes but Dean over an hour to drive. Damn icy roads. Pastor Matt arrived forty-five minutes later and had been keeping Dean company as he alternated between pacing and sitting in stiff agitation while they waited for word on Sam.

"Now don't get me wrong," the man continued, heaven forbid he give Dean too much peace of mind, "he was in serious condition when he arrived, but he's responding well to treatment and, barring any complications, should be able to go home in the morning."

Dean's gaze darted from the doctor to the double doors the man had emerged from. "What's wrong with him?" He'd only gotten a quick glimpse of his brother when Sam was hoisted out of the hole and rushed to the nearby transport. Even then, an oxygen mask had obscured most of Sam's face, thermal warming blankets hiding everything else.

"Hypothermia was our most urgent concern," the doctor explained. "His body temperature had dropped significantly and needed aggressive treatment, and he is responding nicely to. He's also suffering from a Grade 3, or severe concussion, but there doesn't appear to be any fractures, and he has been lucid and answering questions."

Dean shook his head, his eyes closing briefly as the man continued.

"However, he also dislocated his right shoulder, which we've reset, and has some heavy bruising to his back and torso from the fall and subsequent impact."

"Holy shit," Dean whispered, reaching up to scrub at his face, wincing as he rubbed over his own bruises.

"Anything broken?" Pastor Matt asked, his hand reaching up to give Dean's shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"His x-rays came back clear. We're just waiting for an MRI. Because of his age, and the type of shoulder injury he sustained, Sam's at risk for what is known as a 'Bankart lesion.' That's a tear in the cuff of cartilage that forms a cup at the end of the arm bone, and allows for that wonderful range of motion we have in our shoulders. Most of the time, just leaving the arm to rest and heal on its own, with the use of a sling, will be enough. However, sometimes surgery is needed. And before I feel comfortable with releasing Sam, I want to make sure he isn't in that 'sometimes' group. "

"Yeah," Dean blew out a breath. Sam was only supposed to be checking out a cemetery. "Whatever you need to do… yeah."

"But he is okay?" the pastor reaffirmed.

"He's in some pain but he's was awake and lucid. And as long as he takes it easy and lets his body heal, I can't see any reason why he won't make a full recovery, so, yes, he is okay," the doctor answered with a nod. "And at the risk of repeating myself, all things considered, he is a very lucky young man."

"Can I see him?" Dean asked. He needed to see for himself that his brother was okay.

"Of course, but he's still up in radiology right now. Once he's brought back down, I'll have someone come get you. Your brother will probably be sleeping, so just let him rest and I'll let you know more once I get the results of the MRI back. If he does wake up, let the nurse know and just keep him calm and in bed." The doctor held out his hand for Dean to shake. "If you do have any more questions, the nurse can page me." And then, in a flurry of white lab coat, the man disappeared back behind the double doors to, hopefully, save someone else's life.

"Wow," Dean shook his head. "Just, wow."

"Oh, Dean, I am so sorry," Pastor Matt was immediately in his face, all concerned blue eyes and furrowed brows. "I never would have called you boys if I thought either of you were going to get hurt."

"You didn't rear-end me or hollow out a hole for Sam to fall into." Dean wasn't in the mood to try to make Matt feel better; his worry for Sam was too distracting. But he couldn't let the man tear himself up either. "S'not your fault. And, look, I do appreciate you driving all the way out here—"

"_Dean_? Dean _Winchester_? Oh, my God, it _is_ you!" And then Dean had his arms full of a small blond woman as she gave him a tight hug. "I'd recognize you anywhere. Oh, my God," she repeated, oblivious to his confusion as he tried to disentangle himself from her. "You haven't changed a bit. Okay, well, maybe you have, a lot, but I'd still know you anywhere. Oh my, just how long has it been? You do remember me, right?"

She finally pulled back and Dean got a good look at her. Dark brown eyes, thin, pale lips, black rimmed glasses, nurse smock… He tried to think.

"Oh c'mon, you have to remember. You got detention because of me…"

That didn't really help. Dean screwed up his face and slowly shook his head.

"Christmas 1988? Tommy Hudson pushed me down because I called him a jerk for being mean to Erik?"

"Ally?" Dean's eyes widened in recognition. "Ally Brown?"

"Ally _Hudson_ now. Strange world, huh?" The woman blushed as she smiled. "I told you, you'd remember me. How are you? And what the heck are you doing in a hospital at this time of night? You're not hurt, are you? What happened to your face? Should you even be standing?" Totally ignoring Pastor Matt, who seemed to be taking great delight in this little happenstance, Ally grabbed Dean's arm and guided him to a seat. "Are you okay? Have you seen the doctor yet? I work here, I can get you someone… Well, I work on the psych ward but—"

"Whoa, Ally, hold on," Dean finally interrupted. "I'm fine. It's my brother who's in here."

"Your brother?" The woman frowned as she tried to remember the other Winchester. "Small, dark-brown haired kid? Sweetest little dimples? Even if he did always look worried…"

Dean huffed out a laugh. Yeah, she remembered Sammy all right.

"Is he okay?"

"He will be." Dean didn't really want to get into things with her.

"Dean Winchester?" A dark-skinned woman in pink scrubs called.

Dean shot back to his feet. "Gotta run," he smiled at Ally as she stood with him. "Nice seeing you again. Say hello to Tommy, he's a lucky guy."

"Yeah, okay, thanks Dean. It was great seeing you again and I hope your brother is feeling better!" The woman gave him a little wave as he started to follow her.

"I'll see you at home," Matt called after him. "Call if you need anything!"

"Thanks, Matt," and then Dean was gone through the doors, Matt and the rest of the world no longer anything to him. All his focus was on one thing – he was finally going to get to see his brother.

* * *

Sam doubted he would ever be warm again. He didn't remember much before the sinkhole collapsing under him, but there was something niggling at the back of his memory, – something he needed to tell Dean. It was bugging him as he lay stretched out under a ton of blankets on the couch in Pastor Matt's living room, late the following afternoon. The lights had been dimmed in deference to his concussion, but there was a nice fire burning in the fireplace. Sam found the sound of its crackle soothing. Dean was in the kitchen making him a _mocha_. The day that Dean Winchester made girly drinks would normally be fodder for teasing, but Sam remembered the naked worry on his brother's face when Sam had finally opened his eyes late last night. Dean had been sitting next to him, anxiously watching, and Sam knew too well how that felt.

They had only gotten back to the parsonage a little while ago, the hospital keeping him until noon and then traffic being a bitch on the drive back to Blue Earth. Now he lay propped and miserable on Matt's old couch.

His arm hurt and his head hurt. He was exhausted and his entire body sore. And he was cold.

"You want marshmallows in here, too, princess?" Dean bellowed from the other room.

Sam winced as the words pounded through his tender head. He'd swear he could actually feel the bruise on his brain and closed his eyes to compensate.

A moment later, Dean was standing in front of him. "Sam?"

Sam slowly opened his eyes at the worried tone. The bruise on his brother's face made Dean look almost as bad as Sam felt. "You okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse from the beginnings of a sore throat.

"Me? I'm not the one who fell down a well—"

"Sinkhole," Sam corrected. The slowness of his speech making it two words.

"Whatever, Timmy. Now, seriously, stop shitting around and just tell me, are you okay? How's the arm?"

They had lucked out, and while there had been an injury to the shoulder joint, the doctor didn't feel surgery was needed. Sam just had to let the arm rest and it should heal on its own. It didn't keep Dean from worrying about it even more than he did the head injury. It was the word "surgery," Sam knew the word scared his brother.

"It's fine," he promised, then added, "and you don't put marshmallows in mocha, jerk."

"You're lucky I'm putting anything in your mocha, bitch. So suck it up and be nice to me." Dean continued grumbling something about "ungrateful pains in the asses" as he returned to the kitchen to finish his concoction. Sam had no idea what to expect beyond half coffee and a package of hot chocolate. But when Dean had asked if he wanted a coffee or a hot chocolate and Sam couldn't decide, his brother had made the decision for him. Mocha. Best of both worlds.

Sam would have to take his word on it because, to be honest, while he enjoyed lattes, he had never actually had a mocha before. "Anything exciting happen last night?" Sam asked a few minutes later when Dean came back, a steaming mug in each hand and a bottle of water under his arm.

Dean put both mugs on the coffee table, then uncapped the water and gave Sam two pills: a painkiller and an anti-inflammatory. He watched as Sam swallowed them with a sip of water before sitting in the big armchair across from the couch. "You mean besides your journey to the center of the earth?" Dean gave him a newly concerned look. "I was with you all night, dude. Don't you remember?"

"I mean, here, at the house. Did anything happen here last night?"

Sam accepted the mug Dean passed him and sniffed it before trying it. It smelled really good, and he grinned in delight after the first taste. "This is…just wow." How come he'd never tried one of these before?

His brother dismissed the compliment with a snort. "Well, duh. And no, actually… According to Matt, the place was quiet. Not even one slammed door."

Sam took another sip before settling the mug amongst the heavy blankets on his lap, fingers settled around the handle so it wouldn't spill. Holding it up seemed to sap what little strength he had. This sucked. "That's weird," he said.

"Yeah." Dean frowned as he blew on his own drink before taking a mouthful.

"Didn't think you liked girly drinks." Sam watched his brother through half-closed eyes. Fondness brought a small smile to his face.

"Coffee _and_ chocolate, Sam. Do I really need to defend that?" Dean scowled. "Dude, sometimes I don't think I even know you."

Sam grinned. It probably came off as more of a grimace, but it was genuine. "Where's Matt?" he asked.

His brother shrugged as he settled back into the chair, his eyes dark in the glow of the fireplace. The fire was starting to burn down and would need another log soon. "Some sort of church emergency."

"I didn't know churches could have emergencies," Sam said tiredly, trying to stay awake long enough to finish his mocha. The tug of painkillers was working against him. "Thought maybe it had something to do with that sinkhole in the cemetery…"

"He mentioned that the national department of something or other was sending people out to check on the stability of the area, and that the cemetery is off-limits until they finish their investigation. Apparently, this isn't unheard of around here. Maybe not as big as the one you fell in but, hey, Winchester luck and all. The state should probably consider changing its motto to 'Minnesota, come sink yourself.'" Dean rubbed his eyes, wincing when he hit a sore spot.

"I hope they put a lot of yellow tape up." Sam yawned, reaching up with his right hand to cover his mouth. Molten hot pain rippled up his arm before he did more than start, and he sucked in a breath.

"Don't be an idiot, stop moving it," his brother chastised with a small chuckle that broke off in his own yawn. "Why'd you say that?"

"Some kids have been drinking in there. I saw a case of empties in the back section," Sam remembered, surprising himself. "I'd hate for anyone else to fall in."

His brother looked at him sharply, a thoughtful look softening the edges after a moment, "Yeah? Hey…" There was something unreadable in his tone. "Did you happen to see anything else while you were there? Or hear anything?"

"No. Not that I remember, anyways," Sam admitted, his eyes fully dipping closed now. He felt the mug being removed from his lap.

"Sleep, Sam."

Sam wanted to protest. He thought he heard his brother's cell phone ringing, but with those two words, both a command and permission, and he was out.

* * *

_"There is a ghost."_ Bobby didn't mince words when Dean answered. _"And Jim knew about him."_

"What?" Dean quietly moved into the kitchen, letting his brother fall asleep.

_ "It's in Jim's journals. Apparently, he'd known about the spirit for almost twenty years. Not just known, mind you, but trying to communicate with the damn thing."_

Dean swallowed hard, thinking about the little ghost he'd seen. "Damn," he whispered.

_"Dean?"_

"I saw it, Bobby. Yesterday. When I was looking for Sam in the cemetery… I thought I heard Sammy's name and then it was just there. It actually sort of led me right to Sam."

_ "Led you to Sam? Where the hell was your brother, boy?"_

"He fell in a sinkhole. Can you believe that?" Dean still shook his head over that one. "Got busted up pretty good, too. But he's back here now and he's gonna be okay."

_"Crap… You idjits. There are no words. I've heard some about those damn things though, just never thought I'd know anyone who actually fell in one. I think I want the kid's autograph."_

Dean barked out a laugh and it felt good. "I'll tell him. So, Jim's known about this ghost for a while, huh? Did he mention if it's always been so active or is this something new?"

_"Well, according to what he's written, the ghost—a kid named Olaf Peterson—is harmless. Jim called him 'a sad little waif who haunted the cemetery' but never made mention of it coming to the house."_

Cold settled over Dean like a blanket and he had to step back into the living room just to see his brother. Sam was still asleep. "Well, shit." He thought of an excited younger Sammy telling him about his "new bestest ever invisible friend." Knowing this "friend" was actually a ghost left Dean feeling hollow and tired. "Jim didn't happen to mention why he didn't deal with this before, did he?"

Jim, even as soft-hearted and kind as he was, had always done what needed to be done. Even the hard things like this. Children spirits sucked. There was always so much tragedy and pain bound in their deaths. Nothing was worse than having to open a small casket and burn tiny bones. It made Dean sick thinking about what they were going to have to do.

_ "I don't know. The only thing I can say for sure is that Jim didn't think this spirit was any threat."_

"Yeah, great. Only now Jim's dead and we're left to deal with it. Anyway, I better run. Thanks, Bobby. I'll give you a call once we're done here and are heading your way."

Hanging up, Dean moved back into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. He was torn between waking Sam up and telling him about Olaf, and secretly sneaking off to the cemetery and doing the salt and burn himself. He just wasn't sure how his brother was going to react to finding out his invisible friend was not only real, but also their hunt. And then there were all the other things that just were not adding up… Like, why wasn't Olaf tripping the EMF meter? And why did it help him find Sam if it was haunting the house?

Looking at the time as he stifled another yawn—damn Sam and his contagious exhaustion—Dean decided to check on his brother once more, and then try to get some sleep. He'd need to set his alarm to wake Sam up for his next dose of meds in a couple of hours anyway. Maybe then he'd have some great revelation about all this.

Yeah, and maybe the Impala would shovel snow and make him a coffee, too.

* * *

Sam wasn't sure if it was the cold or the pain that woke him this time. Dean had apparently put a couple more logs on the fire before he'd called it a night, but the warmth Sam felt on his face didn't seem to radiate through to the rest of his body. And his shoulder was hurting like a son of a bitch. Glancing at his watch, he bit back an audible groan as he realized his next round of pills was almost an hour away. And he needed to pee.

Masters of dealing with pain, Winchesters knew how this was supposed to work. You plan bathroom breaks for about twenty minutes or so after the pain meds. It allowed you to maximize their effectiveness during the necessary movements required for the trip. Yet somehow Sam had managed to forget that one important rule, and the mocha sitting in his bladder was demanding a way out. He was not going to be able to wait an hour.

There was some good news though. There was a bathroom on this floor, so he wasn't going to have to climb stairs. His bruised body and pounding head appreciating that one small fact. The rest, though, was going to suck. However, Sam, while being many things, was no coward, so taking a few deep breaths to try to relax as much as he could, he steeled his resolve and started the arduous task of slowly moving off the couch. Thankfully, the piece of furniture wasn't one of those soft cushy things—Sam would have needed his brother's help if it had been—so very slowly, inch by inch, he pushed the blankets off his body and carefully shifted his legs to the floor.

He was just pushing up when he heard a soft noise on the stairs and froze. The third step from the top had always had a squeak in it since the time Sam was a kid. It had thwarted many a midnight adventure. He knew Jim had intended to get it fixed someday but apparently it had never gotten done and now someone—someone who was not Dean—had just stepped on it.

Sam tensed, biting back a groan as pain flared through his chest and back, his body not liking the half-propped angle he'd frozen in. He listened. The person was trying to be quiet, but now that Sam had heard him, he could easily trace the slight shifts of movement. It could be a she, but in Sam's experience, it seldom was. Gingerly settling back, Sam looked for something he could use to defend himself. Pleased that one of Dean's strong suits was not picking up after himself, he spotted the two ceramic mugs still on the edge of the coffee table. It wasn't much, but it didn't have to be. He felt a moment of remorse for the mess the leftover mocha would make, but then a dark shape moved through the doorway and into the living room. Sam heard harsh whispering and realized there were at least two intruders. Crap.

_ "You do it!"_

_ "I don't want to do it. You do it!"_

_ "It was your stupid idea."_

_ "We're going to get caught."_

_ "We haven't so far."_

Sam could hear them moving toward the couch.

They were going to see him any moment…

Making a quick grab for a mug, Sam picked it up and threw it at the closest guy.

Startled, the guy yelled.

The mug shattered.

Gasping in pain, Sam curled in on himself. _Shit, shit, shit!_

And then the living room was bathed in light and Dean's voice boomed, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

Someone else yelled, "Run!"

There was a flurry of movement, but the sound of a single shot being fired silenced it all.

"Next one won't miss," Dean growled.

Sam felt dizzy with relief. He wanted to look over the back of the couch to see what was going on, who the guys were, find out what they wanted, but instead he tipped to the side and threw up on the floor.

* * *

Dean glared at the two kids—teenagers—in disbelief, everything falling into place like tumblers on a combination lock. There might be a ghost in the graveyard, but it certainly wasn't haunting this house. Just like there was no EMF, because people don't give off that kind of electricity.

No, just two punk-assed kids, pissed at the local pastor after he caught them drinking in the boneyard and told their parents about it. Angry and smart enough to construct an elaborate ruse to try to scare the older man as payback: break in, pull a few pranks, make him think his house was haunted… Only thing they hadn't counted on was for said older man to know a couple of actual ghostbusters who had no problem busting balls, too, when it was required. And the fact that Sam was injured and had made himself puke because of these two troublemakers bled whatever sympathy or humor Dean might have had out of the situation. After all, no one had really gotten hurt, and when they confessed to him their ingenuity in creating their hoax, Dean was impressed. But still, Sam was supposed to be resting.

"So, what do you want to do with them?" Sam asked after Dean had helped him back from the bathroom and got him re-settled on the couch.

The teenagers had been put to work cleaning up the puke, mocha, and mug, too terrified of Dean to even think about trying to run. They were now staring wide-eyed at the Dean and Sam.

"Think we should call the cops?" Sam asked.

"Nah." Dean shook his head. He held up his phone. "I'll do one better. I'll call Pastor Matt and he can take it up with the parents."

The horrified looks on the kid's faces were priceless.

* * *

"It must have been one hell of a hole," Sam said in the quiet of the early morning.

Pastor Matt had retired to bed only a few minutes earlier, having dealt with the upset parents and repentant children, leaving the Winchesters alone in the living room. Dean was sunk into the big chair across from where Sam was still lying on the coach. It was five a.m., and even though Dean had his head leaned back and his eyes closed, Sam knew he wasn't asleep.

"Huh?" Dean's eyes opened and he slowly turned his head so he could get a better look at Sam.

"The sinkhole," Sam said wearily. The pull of sleep caressed the edge of his mind but he stubbornly held onto wakefulness. He wasn't sure why. "Must have been pretty big."

Dean exhaled tiredly and closed his eyes again. "Big enough."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam agreed as the fingers on his good hand worried at a thread at the edge of the blanket. "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for finding me."

Dean opened his eyes again and fixed his gaze on Sam. He frowned. "We're thanking each other for shit like that now?"

Sam started to shrug but caught himself with a wince. "Ah, no?"

"Good." Dean seemed satisfied. "Wouldn't be me you'd have to thank anyways."

"What?" Sam was confused. "What do you mean?"

Dean straightened up with a sigh. He scrubbed a hand across his tired face and then leaned forward to rest his arms on his legs. "I was getting ready to leave. I'd checked out the cemetery but couldn't see that damn hole, so I figured you'd just gone somewhere else. Library, maybe. Then, well, the weirdest thing happened. I heard your name."

Sam felt a chill that had nothing to do with being cold.

"You are not going to believe this," his brother continued, "but there he was plain as day. Your freakin' ghost. And he led me right to you."

"My… g-ghost?" Sam stammered. He frantically tried to remember what had happened after he fell, but his mind was a painful mess of darkness, cold, and pain. "I don't understand. Did I…did I die?"

"No, Sam." Dean moved off the chair to sit on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to put one warm hand on Sam's good shoulder. His grip was firm and grounding. "Not your ghost. _Your_ ghost. Your little imaginary friend that apparently isn't so imaginary. He's a ghost."

"Olaf." The word spirited across Sam's lip and he started to shiver hard.

Immediately, Dean grabbed the spare blanket off the back of the couch and added it to Sam's layers.

"But…" Sam stared at his brother, his mind racing through recollections of his past. To that winter so many years ago. "No. That's not possible." He shook his head, ignoring the sick sensation of a bruised brain swishing back and forth in his skull. "It can't be."

"Sammy—"

"No, Dean, no." Sam tried to shift down a bit more on the couch, forcing the words past a sharp gasp. "It's late. We need sleep. Good night." And then he closed his eyes and turned his head away. He felt his brother's confused gaze on him for a while longer, then he heard a heavy sigh and then the sound of Dean moving away. Dean didn't go upstairs though, Sam heard him move back to the big chair and after a bit, knew Dean had fallen asleep.

Only when he heard his brother's breathing even out, did Sam dare open his eyes again. The idea that Olaf could be real tormented him. "Luba brat." He mouthed the words, already knowing what they meant. He'd looked them up once in the library at Stanford when he was missing his own brother like crazy. "Loved brother." Sam had been too much of a coward to look any further than the translation, not wanting to know the tragedy behind the headstone. Olaf had been his imaginary friend. That was it.

_Loved brother_… there was just too much sadness there.

Tears burned his eyes and it was a long time before Sam finally fell asleep again.

* * *

Dean had no idea what was up with his brother. Sam had been acting weird ever since Dean tried to tell him about seeing Olaf, and that was three days ago. His brother had been unusually quiet, but Dean had no idea how much of that was from the painkillers and his injuries, and how much was just Sam. Either way, neither of them mentioned anything else about Olaf, even though they both knew something had to be done. They just could not, in good conscious, leave the ghost as he was. It would only be a matter of time until it became twisted by the bleakness of its existence, and hurt someone. Child spirit or not.

Pastor Matt had assured them they were welcome to stay as long as they needed to, but now that the parsonage problems had been put to rest, and a storm was predicted to hit the area in the next 48 hours, Dean was eager to get on the road. Sam could finish out his convalescence at Bobby's, where they'd both feel more comfortable, and Dean could knock that dent out of his car.

Dean waited until after they ate lunch to force the issue, refilling his brother's coffee mug before Sam could escape the kitchen table. "Hey, Sammy—" he started, then lifted his eyes in surprise when his brother cut him off.

"I know, okay? I know it has to be done." Sam sounded defeated. He didn't look at Dean as he spoke. "I just… It isn't fair. He was only a kid."

Setting the carafe down on a trivet, Dean sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. "He was a lot more than that." When Sam finally looked at him, Dean continued, "He was a hero. Nine years old and he drowned trying to save his younger brother, Aric. Olaf got the kid out but was swept away himself…" Dean's voice choked up a bit. Damn it, he didn't even know the kid.

Sam's knee nudged him under the table.

"I never knew that," Sam admitted quietly, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Wow."

"Stupid, I know, but I was always kinda jealous of Olaf, of the time you spent with him. It took a bit, because you know how much I love old dusty records, but I was finally able to find out some things about him. I thought…" Dean paused and scratched at the back of his neck self-consciously. "I don't know, I thought it might help somehow."

"Wow," Sam repeated.

And this time, Dean was sure it wasn't about Olaf. He blushed and tried to shrug it off. "Eh, just another bit of wonderful me. Honestly, Sam, I have no idea how you can put up with all this awesomeness sometimes."

"Me neither," Sam admitted dryly, smiling around the lip of a mug as he took a mouthful of coffee. "Sooo… Now what? Salt and burn?"

The words were casual, the tone was anything but. Dean knew that was the last thing Sam wanted to do and felt a grin slip into place. "Actually," he smirked, "no."

"No?" Sam was watching him carefully as his hand came up to gently massage at his injured shoulder.

Noting how pale Sam was getting, Dean glanced at the clock and saw it was close to the time for Sam's next dose. He stood and grabbed at the two pill bottles beside the sink, then popped the lids off. He passed meds to his brother, then waited for Sam to swallow them before he continued. "Digging, yes. Salt and burn? In this case? I don't think so. Mind you, if we do it my way, it is going to be double the work."

Sam frowned, his words already starting to slow. "I don't… understand."

Rolling his eyes in fond exasperation—Sam was such a narcotic light weight—Dean moved around to help his brother stand. "C'mon, dude. Let's get you back to the couch before you go naptime at the pastor's table."

"But…" Sam started to protest as he let Dean help him up and maneuver him to the living room. "Olaf?"

"I found out something else," Dean said as he expertly got his brother situated and under blankets. "No one else in Olaf's immediate family is buried in this graveyard. Not even Aric. Sam, I think Olaf is restless because he's still looking for his brother. But Aric's buried in that newer cemetery on the other side of town. So, I say, we dig the poor kid up and move him in with his brother. Well, not today obviously. It's too damn cold. We're going to have to come back once the ground thaws out."

Sam stared up at him as Dean continued to fuss with the blankets. "I still…don't understand," he repeated dumbly, and sounded about six years old.

Dean couldn't help the affection that warmed him from inside and crept into his voice. "Sammy, he saved you. Without a doubt, it was him in the cemetery that I heard. And then he led me right to you. And," this part was going to be a bit harder to admit because Dean had never told anyone about this before, "you remember back when we were kids, and I slipped on that stupid granite marker and knocked myself out in the cemetery? You were off playing with Olaf and, man, I can't believe I was jealous of a ghost." Dean chuckled and shook his head. "Anyway, just before I passed out, I saw him. That same kid. He was there. And he was worried. I remember that, plain as day."

"You never…you never said anything 'afore." Sam blinked slowly, stubbornly trying to stay awake.

"Yeah, well, head injury and all. I couldn't exactly be sure, now could I?" Dean crossed the living room to close the curtains.

"I never saw 'em," Sam slurred. His eyes were closed when Dean looked back at him.

"You didn't need to, I guess," Dean realized with a frown. "Although you did say Olaf showed you where to find me when I was out cold. That you just sensed where he wanted you to go." He laughed. "You always were a touchy-feely kid… Anyway, I just don't think we need to salt and burn him. Not this time. I think just moving him is going to be enough. Put him with Aric, give him back his little bro. So…what do you think?"

Sam didn't say anything; he was asleep.

* * *

They left Blue Earth early the next morning with the promise that they'd be back in the spring. Pastor Matt vowed he'd have cabbage rolls waiting for them as he waved them off.

Sam was quiet as he stared out the passenger-side window, thinking about Dean's solution for Olaf. Honestly, he wasn't sure it would work, but it was definitely the less barbaric of their choices so he was willing to give it a shot. It still bothered him that his imaginary friend was actually a ghost and, ironically enough, he'd dreamed of Olaf last night. That the boy had been down in the hole with him, keeping him company until Dean could find him. Keeping him cold. It brought back memories of Pastor Jim and Dean always worrying about how chilled a young Sam would be whenever he came in from playing with Olaf. Sam didn't remember it bothering him much, but both the pastor and Dean would always bundle him afterwards.

"Do you think that's why I used to get so cold?" Sam asked, his voice startlingly loud in the unusual quiet of the car. Dean hadn't put any music on, most likely in deference to the lingering throb at the back of Sam's skull. He had no idea how his brother knew he still had a headache but was thankful for it, nonetheless.

"Huh?" Dean jerked a glance at him.

"Whenever I used to play with Olaf, you and Pastor Jim would always fuss about me being cold. And no matter how warmly I dressed, it took forever for me to warm back up."

"It was December, Sam. It was cold outside," Dean said, then shrugged. "But, now that you mention it. Since he was a ghost… probably."

Sam was quiet again, once more reflective on the past.

"You okay?" Dean asked after a while, casting him a quick concerned look. "Want me to pull over somewhere, give you a break?"

Sam considered that for a moment. He was hurting, but not bad enough for his brother to stop. He knew Dean wanted to get as close to Bobby's as they could before stopping for the night. "I'm okay," he decided. "Maybe in an hour?"

"Sure – we'll need gas then anyway," Dean easily agreed.

"Hey, you remember when you first told me Olaf was a ghost, and I sorta… well, freaked out?" Sam started as he carefully shifted in the seat and turned more toward his brother. "I think I owe you some sort of explanation."

Dean's forehead furrowed. "What? No. You don't owe me anything, Sam."

"I think I do," Sam argued. "It's just that with everything that's been going on over the last two years, hearing that my imaginary friend had actually been a ghost? That even as a kid, there was nothing normal about that? It was just too much. Everyone else can have invisible friends who aren't real… I get the one that is? Yeah… just, too much. Sorry for, you know, freaking out."

His brother gave him a quick look, then shook his head. "There is nothing normal about a lonely kid playing in a graveyard, Sam. To be honest, I'm kinda glad Olaf was real. Well, in his own Casper-assed sorta way. At least you weren't really alone."

"Dude." Sam snorted a laugh. "With a brother like you, I was never alone. Lonely sometimes, yeah, but never alone."

"Sap." Dean blushed.

"Sam," Sam corrected with a grin.

They'd be back in a couple of months to dig up a grave and reunite two long-lost brothers and, strangely enough, Sam was really looking forward to it. There were a lot of things about his life that sucked but, there were a lot of things that didn't.

* * *

And behind them, standing at the edge of the cemetery, Olaf Peterson waited.

The End


End file.
